Sherlock, We Remember Your Childhood Well
by umbuby
Summary: Six short snapshots into the childhood and teen hood and fights that shaped the great Sherlock Holmes... Rated for Abuse and Self-harm. Based on the poem by Carol Ann Duffy  one chapter per stanza .
1. Nobody Hurt You

**Sherlock, We Remember Your Childhood Well**

* * *

_Nobody hurt you. Nobody turned off the light and argued_

_with somebody else all night. The bad man on the moors_

_was only a movie you saw. Nobody locked the door._

* * *

A small pale child sits on the edge of his bed. He's in his pajamas, but he knows there's no chance of sleep, not when they're off on one. **"Me? Me! What the hell have I done to this family then, huh! Tell me!"**

"**Nothing! That's exactly what you've done! Absolutely jack sh-"**

Sherlock covers his ears, but he knows it won't go away. He hates it when dad and mummy fight like this. It happens rarely but that's because it can only happen when he's at home. That happens rarely, too.

"**You don't do ANYTHING for those boys, Andrew! And you know it! When was the last time you spent time at home to even look after them, huh! Or would you rather leave it to me! They may as well not even be your boys!"**

"**I work every day to earn them money! To earn you money and what do I get! I come home to YOU bitching at me!" **He yells. Boom. Boom. Boom.

"**They may as well not be yours!" **She repeats.

"**And aren't they? Is that what you're trying to tell me-"**

"**Bullshit! You really are a piece of work!"**

"**Well, what!"**

"Sherlock" The whisper comes from the doorway. Sherlock hears it open, but doesn't turn to it. He knows it's Mycroft. It always is. Sheridan is probably fast asleep, despite the angry nothings in the next room. His 12-year-old sibling sits beside him. Sherlock, even at such a tender age, would never admit he's scared, but Mycroft knows. Mycroft always knows.

"**Get the fuck out my sight!"**

"**Bitch!"**

A door slams. Something smashes. But dad only goes retires to the spare room. He's not going to leave. And both brothers know that when they go to the living room in the morning, their mother will still be sitting there, staring at the wall.


	2. Your Questions

**Sherlock, We Remember Your Childhood Well**

* * *

_Your questions were answered fully. No. That didn't occur._

_You couldn't sing anyway, cared less. The moment's a blur, a Film Fun_

_laughing itself to death in the coal fire. Anyone's guess._

* * *

He was only thirteen and despite being so very smart for his age, the noises down the corridor seemed alien. Of course he had to go and look. A few hours later Sheridan would see him sitting on the garden step, smoking and staring at the December dew. Sheridan would ask what was wrong and Sherlock would say that he wrote mummy a letter.

"**You won't tell anyone, will you, Sherlock? I mean, why ruin the family for it. She knows already, you know. You really don't want to make it worse, you really don't…" Father acted kindly at the time, but he didn't't act so kind when he threw 'The Complete Works of Shakespeare' into the coal fire and watched the flames lick the pages.**

The moment's a blur, Sherlock doesn't't go in until mummy finds his letter. She opens it reads it. There's silence and then there's a smash.

She isn't as shocked as she should be. Lily Holmes already suspected her husband of cheating. She only wished it wasn't her youngest babe who caught him.

Of course there's a fight. Angry voices. Angry screams. At one point Andrew-father comes outside and pulls him in, to scream at. He screams at Sherlock and mother screams at father and Sherlock just wants it to stop, stop, stop. The night ends with mother crying on the floor.

"**LOOK AT HER! LOOK WHAT YOU DID!"**

After he's gone, he goes to comfort mum, but of course, a comforting hand pulls him back.

Mycroft whispers "You've done enough, Sherlock"

**Anyone's Guess.**


	3. Nobody Forced You

**Sherlock, We Remember Your Childhood Well**

* * *

_Nobody forced you. You wanted to go that day. Begged. You chose_

_the clothes. Here are the pictures, look at you. Look at us all,_

_smiling and waving, younger. The whole thing is inside your head._

* * *

Mummy in hospital. She promised she'd be home tomorrow. He didn't mind if she was or wasn't, he just wanted her better. **"No Sherlock, you're turning fifteen. I'll be fine really" **But he sees her balding hair and her sickly pale skin and he worries. Always. Sheridan is worrying too. Leaning against the hospital cot, the brothers share a look. Mum sees, but she says nothing.

She isn't there tomorrow. Sherlock has saddened at the time, but many years later he would say that he was glad. Because she wouldn't have had to see it. Any of it. He's told he should go over his father's for the day. Connect. He's not happy about it but he does. Sherlock didn't ask for anything. Mycroft's at work. Sheridan's at college. I guess it's just him and dad. Another problem. Another argument. More shouting. More smashing. This one get's out of hand. Father never liked Sherlock much.

**And what about your mother! Are you making it any easier on her!**

**Shut up! Like you care about her!**

**Whose says I don't except you! You're the one who broke things up! Not me!**

**ME! I didn't do ANYTHING! It was you! Oh, or have you forgotten you're whore already!**

**Don't talk about her like that! **Push.

**Don't touch me! **Shove. The larger man falls into the wall. Hard.

**You little shit! Don't you dare-** Hit.

One might call what happened next a fight. But it would not be called much of a fight. Sherlock on the floor. Andrew standing over him. Punching and kicking. Punching and kicking. Later, Sherlock will go home and… try not to cry because his brother's there. **No seriously, Sheridan. I got in a fight. He got pissed off and told me to leave. Seriously. **Sheridan doesn't believe it for one minute, but he doesn't know what to think. So the middle brother calls Mycroft and tells him the situation. He knows immediately what happened. He doesn't tell.

**The whole thing is inside your head.**

**Happy Birthday, Sherlock.**


	4. What You Recall

**Sherlock, We Remember Your Childhood Well**

* * *

_What you recall are impressions; we have the facts. We called the tune._

_The secret police of your childhood were older and wiser than you, bigger_

_than you. Call back the sound of their voices. Boom. Boom. Boom._

* * *

Mycroft worried about his brother. Constantly.

Ever since their mother passed on he'd found himself checking up on Sherlock at every opportunity. Sheridan as well, of course, but Mycroft had always worried about his youngest brother the most. Sheridan was soon to reach his twentieth birthday. He could take care of himself. **Sherlock couldn't.**

It's not that he was particularly traumatized by his mother's passing. On the contrary he appeared unfazed. This unnerved Mycroft. He knew his brother and he knew he was troubled, **screaming**.

He could see it in his eyes despite himself. He could see it in his posture and the ascending level of cigarette usage. And sometimes…sometimes he would look at him in a way that just said _Help_. _Notice me. Please notice me. I need someone. Please. Please… _And behind his callous mask he felt his heart twinge at the boy who looked like his brother but couldn't be, because he was too… fragile.

He didn't say anything. That would make it worse, of course. So he pushed it to the back of his mind. Let it play out. _This turned out to be the worse decision Mycroft Holmes ever made. _He could ignore the posture and the smoking. He could even put his weary disposition. But he couldn't ignore the scars. He simply couldn't. He knew they where there before he saw them. And Sherlock knew he knew, but he didn't say anything. Not until last week…

"_Look, Mycroft I…Please don't…I really need. Think…Please, just don't say anything. Please." Mycroft looked down at his scar crossed forearm and said nothing, for there was nothing he could say._

When he told father, he didn't expect him to be angry. Not at his youngest son. Not at a young boy who was self-harming. But he did. Of course, he didn't really know until a week later when he next visited. He peeped in and saw a pale teen stringing at his violin (the one mummy gave him) with a face full of bruises and two broken fingers. Sherlock looked at him. Just one look and Mycroft knew: His brother would never trust his brother again.

"_I TRUSTED YOU, MYCROFT! I FUCKING TRUSTED YOU!"_

**Call back the sound…**

"_DIDN'T IT EVEN OCCUR TO YOU HOW I FELT? DID IT!"_

…**of their voices.**

"_LET'S ALL FUCK WITH SHERLOCK, YEAH!"_

**Boom.**

"_LET'S ALL STAMP AT HIS HEART BECAUSE HE CAN'T FEEL IT!"_

**Boom.**

"_WELL I CAN!"_

**Boom.**

"_I FUCKING TRUSTED YOU!"_

_The whole thing is inside your head…_


End file.
